


Sympathy for the Devil And Mycroft Holmes

by scifigrl47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, M/M, Off-Screen Things Are Happening, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has always protected his younger brother, but there are some things he just can't control. Sherlock's relationship with John Watson is one of them.  That doesn't mean that he's not going to try, but in the end, sometimes Sherlock makes his own choices.</p><p>And John Watson might just be a match for Mycroft when it comes to protecting Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season One

**Author's Note:**

> All actions happen off-stage and out of sight, but fit within the episodes of season one and two of Sherlock, and are my attempt to explain how Mycroft can be simultaneously so powerful and so inept. I suppose, in the end, he's just as human as the rest of them. Obviously this means spoilers for various episodes, including for the end of The Great Game and the transition into the Scandal in Bohemia at the end of chapter one. 
> 
> If you have not seen season two, please do not read either chapter yet. Spoilers suck. Thank you!

Mycroft Homes didn't spend much time reminiscing about his childhood. For the most part, there wasn't any reason to do so. Once in a while, however, he had a sudden, sharp recollection of some almost forgotten incident, and it took effort to bury it again.

The day that Sherlock Holmes found a puppy was one of those.

He must've been four or five, very young, and very small, the beginnings of his stubbornness and fierce pride already there, in the tiny form. How he'd slipped away from the staff that day, no one knew, but it resulted in yet another nanny being fired. Mycroft didn't remember seeing the housekeeper again, after that day, so she may have been a casualty as well.

However he did it, Sherlock had snuck out of the house, out of the back garden, over the fence, and some distance down the country lane before someone had recovered him. For the most part, Mycroft was certain no one had even noticed the child was gone, but he'd been returned to a great uproar.

Dirty, with a torn shirt and a snarl of brambles in his hair, he was clutching a raggedy, squirming puppy in his thin arms. His blue-gray eyes bright under the shock of black curls, he'd looked up at the unhappy adults and grinned, showing off a missing tooth that had been there earlier in the morning. The puppy was matted with dirt and tangled in the same briars, but it panted happily, making whining noises as it tried to rub its soft head against Sherlock's scratched chin.

It was filthy. It was adorable. And it was unacceptable.

They took it away, of course, Mycroft had known that they would the instant he'd seen his younger brother drag it in, one shoe missing and with scratches on his elbows. They took it away, the front parlor maid taking pity on the tiny boy, telling him that the puppy just needed to be washed and so did he. Sherlock, still small, still naive, had believed her, going along to his own bath without a fuss.

That night, he was still waiting for the puppy to be given back, and it had fallen to Mycroft, now that the nanny was gone, to explain that the puppy was never, ever going to be returning. He remembered his own sense of resignation, of resentment, towards the adults who'd left him with the job, but Sherlock had just stared at him, huge eyes and clutching fingers, panic and fear and betrayal there in that little face.

He'd howled like a banshee all night.

Their parents had their rooms on the other side of the house, it was doubtful that they heard Sherlock crying. Mycroft had done the only thing he could, holding the little boy all night. It didn't make a mote of difference in Sherlock's screaming, but it made Mycroft feel better.

Or at least, he told himself that it did.

The next day, when the screams had degraded into broken, helpless sobs, the adults had been forced to do something about it. Mycroft remembered the black look their father had given him, as if this was all Mycroft's fault, and maybe it was. 

The purebred Corgi that was delivered that afternoon had impeccable bloodlines and a nasty disposition. Sherlock had tried, easily manipulated at that age, when their mother took his arm in a too firm grip and brought him face to face with the beautifully groomed animal, he'd reached out a trembling hand, his face hopeful. The thing had snapped at him, teeth grazing Sherlock's fingers, and that had been that.

Sherlock had been exiled back to the nursery until his scratches and bruises had faded to the point where he presentable again. The new Nanny showed up that day, and off she'd gone with him. Mycroft wasn't allowed to see him, and their parents didn't bother. Sherlock was just left with the new woman, and the sound of his sobs had taken days to subside.

When he'd finally been allowed out, there was a new silence, a new distrust that he leveled on everyone, and to his shock, Mycroft had taken the brunt of it. He'd never understood that, he'd been too young himself, but he did wonder, later on in life, if he was held to higher standards than their parents. After all, both of them knew that their parents were unreliable.

It was Mycroft that Sherlock had depended on, and up until that puppy, Mycroft had been able to blunt some of the hardest edges of living in the Holmes household. 

That was the first time he'd failed Sherlock. It would not be the last.

*

Why he remembered that puppy on that day, more than twenty-five years later, he wasn't really sure. Maybe it was the expression of betrayal that floated across Sherlock's face, there and gone in an instant, or maybe it was the sense of isolation that was Sherlock's constant companion, like a coat he pulled in tight around his body whenever anyone else was around.

Or maybe it was just the way he was baring his teeth and growling. He and that nasty bitch of a corgi might have something in common.

“How dare you,” Sherlock snarled out. “You have no right.”

“Actually,” Mycroft said, with a faint smile, “I do. Legally and ethically. Morally is a bit more fluid, but I still believe myself to be acting in your best interests.” He tapped his index finger against the stack of folders. “Which is all that matters.”

“To you, perhaps.”

“And that is all I'm concerned with.” Mycroft smirked. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the stack closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock gave the folders a dirty look. “I do not require a flatmate.”

“I believe you'll find that you require just that. I know all about your plans to move into 221B Baker St. A move that could only be made possible by dipping into your trust fund, or acquiring a flatmate. In that I control your trust fund, and will flatly deny any such request, that means you are, in fact, in the market for a flatmate. I've taken the liberty of finding some candidates for you.”

“Arranged marriages are beneath you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft flicked an eye roll in his direction. “Oh, we are no where near to that point. All I am trying to do, Sherlock, is encourage some human interaction. Your continuing isolation is not beneficial.”

“Isolation is the perfect environment for me. One I have no intention of changing.”

“You might not intend to change it, but I certainly do.” Mycroft reached for his pen. “I've researched all of the potential flatmates in those folders personally. I believe they have a greater than average chance of reaching an accord with you.” He wasn't expecting much more than that. He'd settle for a few words exchanged every day. Sherlock was becoming like a wraith, a shadow that passed through London's crowds without making contact. He looked at cases for the Met, he spoke to Mycroft when absolutely necessary, and he took clients when one found him and was desperate enough to push for his help.

Mostly, though, he just withdrew into himself.

Sherlock was staring down at the stack of folders. “I had thought,” he said, his voice still and aching, “that you'd learned the futility of trying to buy me friends in the primary grades.”

“I'm not buying anyone.” Friendship was far too much to expect. He wasn't certain that Sherlock was capable of it. He could make the connection, but he wasn't likely to risk it. 

Sherlock's eyes slid up, meeting Mycroft's with a bitter little smirk. “But you've picked an array of professionals who would be open to the possibility.” He stood. “Thank you, dear brother, for reminding me just why I do my best to avoid all contact with you.”

He slammed the door on the way out. It was a childish gesture, but Sherlock thrived on childish gestures, more around Mycroft than anyone else. It was likely he thought they annoyed Mycroft, when in fact, Mycroft found them perversely comforting. 

At least Sherlock still cared enough to try to annoy him.

He reached across the broad, ancient desk, picking up the folder on top of the stack. It had taken him forever to put this particular array of possibilities together. He'd done it himself, from a much wider pool of potential applicants. Any low level flunky could run the security checks, could gather data on family background and social standing, financial stability and job prospects. 

Mycroft was the only one who stood a chance at determining if they could survive more than thirty minutes around Sherlock. He'd actually eliminated some candidates that he didn't think would last five. Sherlock, in a mood, wasn't an easy person to be around, and as of late, he was always in a mood.

Mycroft stood, cradling the first folder in careful hands. He knew the paper didn't need to be handled like spun glass, but there was a ridiculous amount of hope packed into these thin manilla files. Something had to change. Some element of Sherlock's life had to be altered. Mycroft was more than comfortable becoming a carbon copy of their father, calm and steady and analytical and not so much frozen as immune to warmth.

Sherlock wasn't capable of it.

He stared out the window, down at the street below, knowing Sherlock was long gone, but still, hoping to catch a glimpse of his retreating form, clad in his usual dark coat. Sherlock had disappeared already, of course, Mycroft had known he'd been gone; Sherlock could move with punishing speed when he felt like it.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Something has to change, Sherlock,” he said, returning to his desk. “If I have to play the villain in your piece, I will.”

God knows he had experience with that.

* 

He hadn't pressed the situation immediately. He'd taken a step back from the situation, analyzed Sherlock's mental state, and given him time to calm down. When he thought it was safe, Mycroft had the files couriered over to Sherlock's current residence. They were returned an hour later, shredded to confetti. Mycroft looked down at the box of paper strips and sighed. 

The agent who'd delivered it, and retrieved the remains from the alley where Sherlock had discarded it, shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable with the situation. “My apologies, sir, he took the box without objection when I dropped it off.”

Mycroft waved him off. “Thank you, Agent Lincoln.” He'd expected this, of course. Sherlock was nothing if not dedicated to being petulant. It wasn't something that Mycroft appreciated, the stubbornness caused them nothing but trouble, but he'd expected it. “You may have this disposed of, thank you.”

The man collected the box and retreated, relief clear on his face. Mycroft set himself to readying another set of the files. There was a polite tap on the door before it opened, and Anthea padded across the floor, a thin folder in her hand. “This just came in from the street detail,” she said, sounding bored.

Mycroft took the file and flipped it open. The photos were of good quality, crisp and clear, the telephoto lens working well. Well enough to make out the unfamiliar features of the compact, ordinary looking blonde man who was shaking hands with Sherlock in front of 221 Baker St. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, taking in Sherlock's wide smile and the shorter man's easy stance, despite the cane in his hand.

He flipped to the next picture, where Sherlock was hugging Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of 221B Baker St., while the other man stood by. The third photo showed the three of them going inside. And the forth was a closeup of the man's face, caught as he half turned away from the door, looking back over his shoulder.

There was something about that face that made Mycroft straighten in his chair.

He set the photos down. “Who is it?” he asked Anthea.

“Unknown at this time. We have people looking into it. CCTV footage shows him entering and leaving St. Barts in the company of Mike Stamford at a time when Sherlock was in the building. We've extrapolated that they met at that time; Stamford appears to be known to both of them.”

Her mobile gave a faint trill, and she pulled it out. “We have a name. Dr. John Hamish Watson. Recent honorable discharge from the army, injured in the line of duty, excellent service record, no adverse public records, other than the usual drunk and disorderly dating back to when he was 18, picked up and released, no charges officially filed.” Her thumb flicked on the screen. “Trained at St Barts, unmarried, apparently heterosexual, one surviving sister, currently living in Kensington, receiving military pension, no outstanding debt of any significance, and seeing a therapist for a case of PSTD.” She looked up, still bored. “Orders, sir?”

Mycroft stared down at the picture. John Watson looked tired in the shot, tired but resolute, his shoulders square, his chin firm, his eyes clear and cautious. That was what had set off alarm bells in the back of Mycroft's mind, the sharp, steady glance of a man used to checking for immediate danger. Behind Sherlock's back, he was scanning the street for threats, the ingrained habit of a career soldier.

And he was standing in front of 221B Baker St. With Sherlock. With a smiling Sherlock. This was an unmitigated disaster.

“Get me everything you can on him. Not surface details,” Mycroft said, his lips pulling back in a scowl. “I need everything, scrape the civilian and military databases, find me connections, friends, family, coworkers, medical records, psych evaluations, everything.”

The mobile trilled again, and Anthea nodded, even as she checked it. “You may want to pull up the CCTV footage of Baker Street,” she said, not changing expression. “There appears to be a situation in progress. Police presence. DI Lestrade.”

Mycroft bit back a curse. “His foolish suicide case.” He turned his computer on and pulled up the feed. He was just in time to see Sherlock stride out to a waiting cab, and to Mycroft's shock, Watson was right on his heels, limping along, but keeping pace without any issue.

“Unmitigated disaster,” Mycroft whispered. There was no way that Sherlock was taking him along. Not to a crime scene. He wouldn't. 

He... Was.

Mycroft spun in his chair. “Everything, Anthea. Start with the therapist, and work backwards from there. I want everything we can get on him, we have fifteen minutes.”

Anthea didn't waste time arguing or objecting, or telling him he was over reacting. She'd held her job long enough to know that not much about Sherlock was an over reaction. On her dangerous looking heels, she slipped back out of Mycroft's office, leaving him to pull the CCTV feeds and come to conclusions of his own.

His fingers steepled in front of his face, he stared at the footage, taking in the situation in bits and pieces, as papers were slid across his desk, balancing the data his underlings were providing with what he could see for himself on the camera feeds. When Watson slipped under the police barrier with Sherlock, Mycroft's heart stopped.

When Sherlock dashed out alone, disappearing down the street at a fast jog, he relaxed, just a bit. There still might be time to head him off. To stop this, before Sherlock formed an actual attachment. While John Watson emerged from the building, and stopped to speak to Sgt. Sally Donovan, Mycroft pressed his intercom. “Anthea, I need you to go collect our new chess piece.”

“Of course.” Unflappable as always. “Special instructions?”

“Sending you the address now. Keep him calm and under control.” With a few keystrokes, Mycroft called up a sequence of phone numbers and produced an overlay of the local map on his computer screen. He watched Watson's movements on the CCTV feed and extrapolated speed and destination, pulling up feeds, one after another and finding weak spots, isolated corners.

Picking up his phone, he dialed the first number.

* 

“Sir?”

Mycroft sat in the single chair, the chair that John Watson had eschewed, his eyes hard, his spine straight, staring Mycroft down with a ferocity Mycroft hadn't expected. One day. One goddamn day, there is no way that this could've progressed out of his control that quickly.

“Sir?”

His head tipped back, his hands folded on the umbrella handle in front of him, he closed his eyes and tried to put things in order. Control. He could control this. 

“Sir?”

“Yes?” Mycroft said at last, tiring of the constant interruptions. 

“Dr. Watson has returned to Baker Street.”

Mycroft's teeth gritted down with enough force to make his jaw ache. Damn it. He hadn't even flinched. He hadn't responded to threats or bribery, and Mycroft wasn't certain if he was annoyed or impressed by that, by all of this, because this was not a scenario he'd even remotely considered. 

And scenarios he hadn't considered gave him ulcers. Especially if they involved Sherlock.

Mycroft pulled himself to his feet, dusting off the clean front of his jacket with a precise flick of his hand. “Did he return directly?”

“No. Brief stop at his current residence in Kensington.”

“What did he retrieve?”

“Nothing visible. The search team believes he collected a weapon. His Browning army pistol. It's an extrapolation, without going in, we won't know.”

Interesting. “Does he have a permit to carry?”

“No.” The agent cleared his throat. “Do you want him to be picked up, sir?”

Mycroft paused, considering it. “No. Not yet. Find something solid we can use against him, if it becomes necessary.” Despite the strange feeling in his chest that it might not actually become necessary. Not that he was planning on doing anything about it, he didn't get to this point in his life by depending on a damn gut instinct. That was moronic, and not something that the Holmes family would ever do.

“Why do I keep thinking of that damn puppy?” he said, and it wasn't until he heard the words that he realized what they meant.

“Sir?”

“Never mind.” Mycroft turned on his heel. “Tell the teams to remain in place. For now.” He stalked towards the entrance. “I want every piece of information that we can find on Sherlock's new-” He paused. What word fit here? He really wasn't sure. “Friend.”

Oh, God, if that was accurate, Mycroft could just see his whole life tumbling to ruins.

*

He answered the phone with a sense of, if not foreboding, then reluctance. Resignation. Mycroft answered his phone because he had a duty to the last remaining blood tie he had left in the world. 

Not because he had any desire, at that moment, to speak to Sherlock Holmes.

“Do not do that again.”

Mycroft heaved a bored sounding sigh, leaning back in his desk chair, despite the echoing darkness outside the window. It was so late it could almost be called early, and he was tired, bone tired, his skin stretched too thin over his frame, his breath heavy in his lungs. “Good evening, dear brother. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

He reached across the desk, flicking through the pages, the photos, taken with ease from the police databases, gathered by his own men, and culled directly from the source. His own handwritten notes, the penmanship sharp and slanted, the strokes like angry cuts on the white paper, were on top, and he pushed them aside.

“Don't ever threaten John Watson again.”

He could feel the sigh building in his chest, and he resisted the urge to let it go. “Must you be so melodramatic,” he said, after careful consideration. “You could not have imagined that I'd idly sit by. There are security clearances to consider, and he was an unknown element. Protocol-”

“I do not work for you. It's tiresome, that I have to continue repeating that. For a man of such renowned intelligence, I'd have thought you'd figure this out, Mycroft. I do not work for you. I will not work for you. Just because you've created a security clearance for me and pushed it through does not mean I'd be so flattered by the attention as to suddenly start doing your dirty work.”

Mycroft blinked, a little stunned. The rush of words was more than he'd gotten out of Sherlock in a year. There was heat behind them, stark and sharp and rushed, and emotion. Mycroft set his pen down, the movement precise and measured. “You are a resource that must remain accessible to me,” he said, tone brooking no nonsense. “That means if you are determined to allow John Watson to move into 221B Baker with you, then he must be properly vetted. You know this, Sherlock. You knew with what you were involving him.”

“And at what point did the British crown sink so low as to drag an innocent man off the streets and submit him to an interrogation in a deserted warehouse?”

“Sometime during the 1800's, I'm fairly certain,” Mycroft said, his tone sardonic. “Prior to that, there weren't really warehouses in the way that we think of them, so-”

“This is tiresome, Mycroft.”

“I agree,” Mycroft said, his words cracking like a whip. “You made the choice to involve him, and now you've gotten your way. I find I'm not interested in listening to your complaints. You knew what would happen.”

“I'd hoped otherwise.”

“And that was foolish.” Mycroft regretted the words as soon as they slipped out, he slumped back in his chair, hand closing with silent force on his forehead, frustrated beyond belief with himself. When it came to Sherlock, his vaulted control dissipated like fog in the wind. He took a deep breath. “Sherlock...”

“No. You're right, it was foolish.” Sherlock's voice was soft, empty. Hollow, and Mycroft wanted to scream. “It doesn't matter in the end, you'll do as you please. You always have, without any consideration as to how it effects-” He broke off, his teeth snapping together as if he was trying to swallow his words.

For a long moment, they just sat there in silence, unable to find the words to bridge the renewed distance. Mycroft reached for the crystal decanter beside his desk. “Why him?” he asked at last.

“I don't know,” Sherlock said, without pause, and that, more than anything, made Mycroft think he was telling the truth.

“He's... Remarkable,” he admitted, pouring himself a glass of brandy. He deserved it at this point. “I thought he was going to punch me at one point.”

A warm, rumbling sound reached his ear through the phone, and he realized, with a start, that it was laughter. It wasn't a sound he associated with Sherlock. “He told me you tried to buy him off.”

“He did not!” Mycroft felt his lips twitch. “Did he walk straight in and tell you?”

“The whole thing. Point blank, asked me who in the modern day and age had archenemies. He seemed utterly befuddled by the concept.”

Mycroft's shoulders were shaking with repressed humor. “Did you tell him, in no uncertain terms, that the Holmes family has always prided ourselves on the high class of our enemies? That it's a historical fact that our enemies are of a better class of individual than most people's friends?

“It didn't come up on conversation,” Sherlock said, sardonic.

“Work it in at some point, we need some point of pride. And it will keep you from going off on one of your usual tangents.” Glass halfway to his lips, he heard the silence echo over the line. His heart sinking, he put the glass down with a thump on the desktop. “Oh, Sherlock, you didn't.”

“It's not that I intend to,” Sherlock said, his voice subdued. “It just... Happens.” 

Mycroft's chest felt tight. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “When, on the way home tonight?”

“What? Oh, no, on the way out to Brixton. Well, technically back at Barts.”

Mycroft blinked. “Back... At Barts.” He settled back. Back at Barts. Before the first pictures Mycroft'd seen were taken. Before he'd followed Sherlock home. “Then he couldn't have taken it so badly.”

Another long pause. “He said it was amazing.”

And just like that, a knot that Mycroft hadn't even been aware existed, somewhere deep in his chest, buried, hidden, desperately protected, came lose with a rush of relief. His head fell back, and his eyes closed. “Extraordinary,” he said, the single word a benediction.

“He said that, too,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft shook his head, a smile curling his lips. 

“I tried everything,”Mycroft said. “Threats, bribery, insults, compliments... No impact. It was as if...” He shook his head. “Sherlock, the man killed for you. He killed to save you, tonight.”

“I'm aware of this.”

“Are you? Are you really? Are you aware of what it means?” Mycroft reached for his drink again, and this time, he got it to his lips. “He's not afraid of me, and he's not threatened by you. You have managed to find the one man in London, perhaps the one man in all the world, whom we cannot manipulate.”

“At least not by our usual means,” Sherlock said. 

“Do you think yourself capable of learning new ones?”

Another speaking pause. “I may have to, won't I, dear brother?”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft stared at the liquid in his glass. “Sherlock,” he said, without thinking about it, without planning it, because he'd lost all sense of planning or hope of keeping his life in an orderly fashion, he'd tossed that in the bin the moment that John Watson had stared out at him from the photograph, and now he wasn't sure why he'd been fighting it so hard, why he'd struggled at all.

Because John Watson had said that Sherlock, at his most supercilious, invasive, and obnoxious, was amazing.

“Do you remember bringing home a puppy, when you were a child?” he said, studying the play of light in the amber liquid. “You were very small, but you got out, and came back with a puppy you'd found somewhere. Do you remember-”

There was a faint snort of disdain. “What are you talking about, Mycroft? Father would never have let us have a pet.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft's fingers tightened on the glass, and he took another swift swallow, feeling it burn all the way down. “Of course not. So you don't remember?”

“I think you're confusing some horrid movie with our rather austere childhood,” Sherlock said. “Go to bed, Mycroft, you're becoming maudlin.”

“You're likely correct.” Mycroft paused, wanting to say something, something, he didn't know what, and even if he managed the words, Sherlock didn't want them, he'd never wanted them. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Mycroft.”

Long after the phone went dead, he sat there, staring at the empty glass.

* 

When doing work of a threatening nature, Mycroft preferred to arrive unannounced.

There were two schools of thought on it, of course, the first was that letting your potential victim stew in his own juices while waiting for you arrival was quite effective. Mycroft used that sparingly, and only with the most fragile personalities. Otherwise, he much preferred to give his victim no time to plan, no time to escape, and certainly no time to arm himself.

He cornered Sebastian Wilkes at his favorite club.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, taking an open seat at their table without waiting for an invitation, an unforgivable breach of etiquette, and he didn't much care. “Sebastian,” he said, his voice pleasant. “How nice to see you again.” He set his attache case on the table and flipped it open. Pulling out a file folder, he slid it across the small table with a single finger, letting it come to rest in front of the stunned, white-faced man.

To Sebastian's credit, he tried to rally. “Mycroft, it's been forever.”

“And you will soon wish it had been much longer.” Mycroft's lips were curled in a very unpleasant smile as he closed his attache case. “As it has not been nearly long enough for me to forget the rather airtight arrangement that we had made, but my memory appears to be quite a bit better than yours.”

Sebastian swallowed. “Now, Mycroft-”

“You do not want to have this conversation in front of your colleagues,” Mycroft said, refolding his hands together on the table in front of him. He gave Sebastian a faint, sanctimonious smile.

“Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us,” Sebastian said, and his friends were already taking their leave before the words were out of his mouth. Sebastian waited until the table was clear before he leaned over, businesslike smile on his face, masking a deeper dread that Mycroft could see in his eyes. “Mycroft, really, this is-”

“Unacceptable,” Mycroft said, his voice very soft. “I must agree. You had your choice, Sebastian. I made it clear the first time you used Sherlock in one of your little games that I would not abide that.”

It wasn't the first time that Mycroft had taken one of Sherlock's schoolmates or acquaintances aside, and it wouldn't be the last. The vast majority of the population was unsettled or annoyed by Sherlock, by his casual ability to see through their masks and reveal their secrets. Since Sherlock lacked a filter about sharing what he knew, he had a tendency to push people, especially insecure people, to lash out at him. He was used to that, and Mycroft was used to that. Neither of them liked it, but Mycroft always suspected it bothered him more than it bothered Sherlock.

What made Mycroft see red were the ones who curried favor, used Sherlock behind the scenes or out of sight, and then cut him in public. Sebastian fell into that category, he always had. The government and business worlds were full of men like him, superficial and smarmy, parasitic users who formed no real loyalties and made no real ties.

He was more of a sociopath than Sherlock would ever be, but he possessed the social skills to cover it.

Now, he was trying to pull himself together, to overcome the shock of Mycroft's sudden appearance. He pushed the file aside, leaning forward, smiling, all the usual little conman tricks that Mycroft found tiresome. “Look, Mycroft, really, it's been ages since Uni, this is ridiculous. You can't possibly hold some minor, youthful indiscretions against me at this point.”

Mycroft considered that. “Yes,” he said at last. “I do.” Reaching out, he maneuvered the file back in front of Sebastian. “Take the time to consider this, before you say another word.” With a flick of his fingers, he opened it. “Of course, I understand why you'd pay closer attention to current indiscretions, so I've taken the liberty of collecting all of your most recent ones.”

The blood drained out of Sebastian's face. “This is blackmail.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft leaned forward, folding his hands together in front of him, his expression carefully neutral. “Blackmail implies payment to keep something hidden. This, Sebastian, this is the wrath of a very angry God. A just punishment for your sins. I did explain to you, did I not, all those years ago, that if you tempted fate, you would not like the consequences of your actions.”

“You can't do this.”

That was such a stupid thing to say that Mycroft was hard pressed not to laugh in his face. “You are a user and a bully,” Mycroft said, standing and collecting his case. “In the end, the only thing a bully such as yourself has to fear is a bigger bully, and I am the biggest, nastiest bully you will ever encounter.” He swept a sharp look in Sebastian's direction. “You will let Sherlock complete his work, you will pay him an astronomical sum for it, and I will go back to pretending that you don't exist.”

Sebastian swallowed, throat bobbing “Mycroft-”

“If you cross me again, if you so much as annoy me, or call attention to yourself, or I hear so much as a whisper of your name connected to Sherlock, I will set about wrecking a very complete destruction of your life.” He paused, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You will not be the first to disappear, without so much as a whimper, nor you will be the last.

“If you are truly unlucky, or truly annoying, I'll keep you around. As a example for what, exactly, happens to people who don't afford my orders the proper respect.” His smile stretched, became macabre. “Don't let it come to that, Sebastian.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, knowing that Sebastian had some heavy drinking ahead of him tonight. So, for that matter, did Mycroft.

* 

Mycroft had just picked up the final reports on Sherlock's latest disaster when he looked up and realized the man himself was somehow in his study. There had been no knock, no doorbell rung, and none of the staff had announced him; somehow Sherlock had slipped through Mycroft's house without being seen or noticed.

For a long moment, the silence just stretched, and Mycroft sat there, frozen, feeling for all the world like he was in a room with a wounded wild animal, as if he said or did the wrong thing, Sherlock would disappear.

Careful, slow, he'd moved from his desk to the couch, taking a seat with the folders still in his hand. It had been only an instant before Sherlock followed him, sinking down onto the uncomfortable seat, and collapsing sideways, as if the strings that held him up were cut, all at once. His head landed in Mycroft's lap, and it was a surprising weight against his thighs.

After an instant, Mycroft'd raised his hand and risked stroking Sherlock's hair, his fingers gentle on the tangled mass. Sherlock needed a hair cut, he always needed a haircut, the heavy lines of his face were well balanced by the black curls, but still, he needed a haircut.

Mycroft didn't say a word. Neither did Sherlock. After a few moments, he relaxed under Mycroft's hand, his shoulders slumping and his breath escaping in a faint, pained sigh. Mycroft heaved one of his own, affectionate and annoyed in equal parts, but he didn't say a word.

The night stretched out, dark and silent, and they remained there, still and quiet and with the mien of someone recovering from a nearly fatal wound. Mycroft dozed at some point, his head lolling back onto the rear of the couch, and from time to time, he heard Sherlock's breath go deep and steady and rumbling, indicating that he slept, too.

When Mycroft awoke the next morning with a stiff neck and a faint shiver, he was alone. 

He'd stared at the dawning sun outside the window, at his empty lap, at the door, closed as firmly as it had ever been, and wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing. But when he'd crouched to retrieve the scattered pages of his file, dropped at some point in the night, his gaze had caught on a single line.

'Dr. Watson and his date abducted at gunpoint.'

Mycroft lowered himself back to the couch, flicking past to the pictures, of yellow spray paint across the windows of 221B Baker St., of the aftermath of the kidnapping and rescue. One hand cupped over his mouth, muffling the sound of his indrawn hiss. Focusing on the report, he read it from beginning to end, and at some point, his fingers began tracing the fabric where Sherlock's huddled from had lain last night.

Where he'd been driven, by some unspoken emotion. 

Mycroft closed the folder and stood. Crossing to the filing cabinet, a beautiful piece of carved oak and bronze, he added this report to the others, and paused. He retrieved an empty folder, and labeled it Watson, J. He slid it into Sherlock's files, dividing them neatly into two parts: before John Watson and with John Watson.

He stared down at it, and took a deep breath. “Damn puppy,” he said, and slammed the drawer shut, trying to convince himself that he was annoyed, not approving. Then he took a seat at his desk and began making calls. Best to get the windows clean before Sherlock took a cricket bat to them.

* 

He was overseeing the work himself when John came up the stairs, looking exhausted and strained. Mycroft gave him a sideways glance, his head tipped to the side, his mouth pursed, and John rolled his eyes. “Hello, Mycroft,” he said, heading straight for the kettle.

“Good afternoon, John,” Mycroft said, going back to the file in his hands. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” John asked, digging through the cupboards.

“No, thank you, though.” Mycroft waited until John sank down with an exhausted sounding sigh into his usual chair. Mycroft kept his head down, but glanced up at John from beneath the line of his brows. “Long day at the surgery?”

John chuckled. “And why am I not surprised that you already know about my new job?”

“You shouldn't be surprised, John, you know I have to keep close tabs on Sherlock and his environment.”

“Wonderful, I've always wanted to be an environmental feature.”

Mycroft couldn't stifle a smile at his deadpan delivery. “And how is my dear brother?”

“Reaching new heights of anti-social behavior.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “Do I sense a note of stress in your usually smooth living situation?” he asked, still amused. If John had really been angry, he wouldn't have tolerated the conversation.

“Late nights, arguing about who'll be doing the shopping, kidnappings. You know, the usual flatmate problems.” John paused, his lips pursing tight. His face was annoyed, but there was a dejected slump to his shoulders that surprised Mycroft. “I don't know if he wants my help or not.”

“He does,” Mycroft said, almost before the words were out of John's mouth.

“Yes, well, I'm not so convinced. He's gone into two different potential crime scenes and left me locked outside,” John said, his voice short. “I'm beginning to feel like a dog, allowed to tag along on walks, and then tied to the fence outside while he goes inside to do, well, God only knows what.”

Mycroft's eyebrows arched. “And this surprises you.”

“Well, why bring me along if he's just going to do everything on his own?”

Mycroft covered his mouth with one hand, hiding a grin. It was a force of habit, to keep his eyes serious over a smiling mouth. “Oh, I see. You're feeling excluded.”

“I'm feeling pointless,” John clarified. 

“And he's feeling safe.”

A pause, and John's eyes, sharp and intelligent and warm, narrowed on Mycroft. “What? Why would he be more safe if I'm outside?”

“He wouldn't be, but that's not his priority. You're safer if you're locked outside.”

Another pause, this one longer, and a long, drawn out sigh. “Are you seriously telling me that he's leaving me outside on the sidewalk so that I don't get hurt?”

“You put it best, John. Crime scenes. If he's walking into a situation that he doesn't understand, and doesn't know what he's facing, then he will, of course, take every measure possible to secure the location and make sure there's no threat before he allows you in.”

“That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” John snapped, and he let his head fall forward into his hand, rubbing his forehead with tense fingers. “You- Why would you even think that?”

“Because I know my brother a bit better than you do at this point.” Mycroft said with an austere smile. “He is nothing if not protective of those he considers worthy of the gesture.”

“That is still the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

“I never claimed it made sense, or was a good choice, I was merely attempting to help you understand. He will protect you, if he can. He's-” Mycroft's face relaxed, and the smile became a little more real, a little more relaxed and warm. 

“Remarkable,” John said, with a smile of his own. “And a pain in the ass.”

“A remarkable pain in the ass,” Mycroft agreed, and his smile stretched into a grin, a full one, teeth and all, and John was laughing back at him, eyes bright, his shoulders back where they should be, his head up, full of humor and warmth and life, and they were both laughing.

Sherlock paused in the doorway. “Well, this is terrifying,” he said, his voice crisp and chilled, and that only made the two of them laugh more, to his obvious frustration.

John laughed with real force, nothing fake or forced or polite about it, and when he finally got himself under control again, his cheeks were pink and his eyes were wet. “What?” he asked Sherlock, still chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. “We're bonding!”

“The commonwealth will not survive such a bond,” Sherlock said, staring down at Mycroft, eyes narrowed. “You're in my chair.”

“So I am,” Mycroft said, standing and straightening his coat, gathering his things. “Good day, gentlemen, I have things to do this afternoon, so I shall leave you to it.”

“It was good to see you, Mycroft,” John said, standing as the kettle demanded attention. The strange thing was, he sounded sincere. The shock was enough to leave Mycroft standing there, brow furrowed. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him, a sardonic smile curling his lips up. Mycroft gave himself a mental shake and nodded. 

“It was good to see you, too, John.”

* 

Mycroft's phone ringing at all hours of the day and night wasn't unusual. It never really bothered him; truly bad news almost always arrived in person.

So when Anthea opened the door to his office, her face drawn in tight, strained lines, a single sheet of paper clutched in her hand, his stomach had dropped. She'd had a car standing by, which he appreciated, but his phone was out before he could even finish reading the rather sparse report.

Sherlock picked up on the second ring. “They won't let me into the building,” he snarled.

The relief was so overwhelming that Mycroft's knees actually went weak. He fumbled for a grip on the edge of his desk, and let his eyes shut. With a shuddering breath, he pulled himself together. At least enough to speak to Sherlock. “Of course they won't, Sherlock, it's not safe.”

He could hear the thudding tattoo of Sherlock's feet, pounding back and forth on the floor. In the distance, there were sirens still wailing, and Mycroft shuddered. “There's no reason why I can't go-” He broke off, a frustrated growl working it's way through his throat.

Mycroft resisted the urge to ask him if he was all right; that question was never well received. Instead, he went around Sherlock's defenses. “Is John safe? Mrs. Hudson?”

“John is out for the night,” Sherlock snapped, and despite the pique, Mycroft heard a note of relief underneath the words. John wasn't there. John was removed from the source of the trouble, from the possibility of harm. That was probably for the best, but Mycroft made a gesture at Anthea, catching her eye. He scribbled a quick note and handed it over. She nodded, and slipped out of the room, her heels beating a subtle tattoo on the hardwood floor.

“And Mrs. Hudson?” Mycroft asked, sinking back into his desk chair. He brought his computer awake and began the systematic work of gathering information.

“I'm with her now. She's dithering,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, Sherlock, really,” Mrs. Hudson said in the background. “That's just unfair, I was frightened out of my wits.”

“Dithering,” Sherlock said, a note of amusement in his voice.

Mycroft smiled, having a clear mental picture of Sherlock sitting in her overly feminine, overly cluttered kitchen, perched on a tiny white chair with a cup of tea and likely a few biscuits in front of him. Coddled, just a little, and staying close.

“I believe she's allowed, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a faint smile. “Structural damage?”

“We lost the front windows, minor interior damage, a lot of flying glass. It'll take forever to find it all.”

“No going barefoot for a while, then.” Mycroft was looking at the CCTV footage as they spoke, moving the cameras, studying the impact. He started on the damaged building, where the explosion had originated, and only after he'd internalized the blast pattern, did he switch to the exterior view of 221 Baker. 

The urge to kill someone, preferably in a slow, painful, and deliberate manner, was immediate and overwhelming. 

“John got me slippers,” Sherlock said, and he was pacing again, and Mycroft knew, without seeing, without asking, that he had the teacup in hand, but wouldn't touch the biscuits now, the concept of a case taking form in his mind, and he was already focused. Driven. 

“And you actually wear them?” Mycroft asked, making note of the movements of officers on the street, of the structural integrity of the building, of the subtle movements of information between departments as the situation evolved. A spare, detached part of his mind recognized the symptoms in himself, just as focused, just as driven as Sherlock.

“On occasion. They keep my feet warm.”

“That is what they're for, Sherlock, so you shouldn't be surprised.” Mycroft glanced up when Anthea slipped back into the office, handing over a crisp piece of stationary. 

_John Watson accounted for, guard will remain until instructed to withdraw._

Mycroft nodded at her, and noted the address on the page. Sarah, of course, she'd lasted far longer than Mycroft had suspected that she would. Perhaps she was made of sterner stuff than her file had indicated, because he had estimated that she would've cracked under the pressure by now.

Sherlock, after all, was capable of producing the sort of pressure that most people couldn't imagine.

“John is safe,” Mycroft said, scribbling another set of instructions for Anthea.

“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice still and quiet. 

For a long moment, they sat in silence, only the sound of Mycroft's fingers on his computer keyboard and Sherlock's feet pacing back and forth breaking the stillness. Their binary movements, sounds, almost come together into a single rhythm, but they never quite mesh.

In the light of his computer monitor, Mycroft smiles a bitter little smile. Wasn't that always the way with them?

“I'll see to it that the explosion is assigned to Lestrade,” Mycroft said at last, and Anthea reappeared, the file he'd been waiting for in her hand. “In exchange, I'll be by in the morning with something I'd like you to look into for me.”

“I don't work for you,” Sherlock said.

“I'd appreciate if you looked this over, Sherlock. It's little enough to ask, considering the trouble you've caused me over the past few months.” Deliberate. Goading. Get Sherlock's back up. Get him to focused on showing Mycroft up. 

Any distraction from the explosion, which the official explanation was already looking shady. Mycroft snorted under his breath. Gas explosion, my God, they were pathetically unprepared for any real subterfuge, weren't they? There was no way that anyone with any brains would believe that.

“I'll be by in the morning,” Mycroft repeated, and the sound of Sherlock's footsteps had ceased, stony silence of every sort echoing across the line. “Good night, Sherlock.”

There was no reply, but he wasn't really expecting one. He waited for the line to go dead, and when it did, he sighed. He'd chosen the end of the conversation, but that didn't mean that he didn't suffer when the connection was cut.

“Dig deeper,” he said to Anthea. “This is too close, and too obvious. Someone's after Sherlock.”

* 

Mycroft was everywhere at once. He rather had to be, because goddamn, there was a vest of C4 explosives to deal with, and Sherlock was pacing, and Sherlock still had a gun, Jesus god, who'd let him have a gun, he'd have to speak to John about that, about letting Sherlock anywhere near his weaponry, and there were agents everywhere, because James Moriarty had catapulted himself from 'underground figure of growing power and influence' to 'bloody bastard who tried to kill Sherlock and John' in the space of one week.

Mycroft was going to kill someone.

Sherlock was pacing, his head snapping around, his body a sharp line of tense muscles. “Sherlock,” Mycroft said, in an undertone. “Sherlock, what-”

Sherlock snapped a hand in his direction, a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Not now,” he gritted out, and his breathing was sharp and hard.

Mycroft opened his mouth again, and paused, as Sherlock's strained face suddenly registered with him. “John?” he called, his voice pitched loud enough to be heard in the massive pool. 

“Mycroft?” the voice came from behind them, and both Mycroft and Sherlock spun around. John was scrambling to his feet, stepping out from behind a pile of stacking chairs. “Sorry, I was just sitting for a moment.”

“Quite right, it's been a long night,” Mycroft said, as all the strain went out of Sherlock in a rush. Mycroft grabbed his arm and steadied him as Sherlock's trembling legs nearly had him collapsing into the wall. Mycroft had been right; John had disappeared from his sight, and Sherlock had been on the edge of panic. Even so, he hadn't been capable of just calling out, he couldn't expose himself like that.

So Mycroft had done it for him.

And now John was there, too, on Sherlock's other side, steadying him with a hand on Sherlock's back. Without a word, without comment, he removed the gun from Sherlock's hand and tucked it away. “Let's sit down,” he said, and Mycroft nodded.

“That might be for the best,” Mycroft said, just as Sherlock pulled away from both of them, his shoulders tightening, his chin snapping up. 

“I am going to look over the sniper's positions,” he said, and stalked off without another word.

Mycroft watched him go, but it was John who sighed. “Indeed,” Mycroft said, with a faint smile. “You are unharmed, John?”

“Mmm?” John blinked at Mycroft as his attention was pulled from Sherlock's retreating back. “Oh, yes. Might have been one of the worst days of my life, all told, but I'm perfectly healthy.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, and the smile faded into a look of strain. “I may have to double up on therapy appointments for a time, that's all.”

“We'll make sure that happens.” Mycroft rocked back on his heels. “John, you need to stay near him, as much as possible, for a while.” He felt, more than saw, John turn in his direction. “He's panicking. Badly.”

John glanced up, and Mycroft didn't know if he was looking for Sherlock, or just avoiding Mycroft's eyes. “I know,” he said, his voice soft. “How long is 'a while?'”

“I'll be honest with you, I have no experience with him in this state. We're in uncharted territory, and I am not enjoying it.” Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose with hard fingers. “I've never seen him like this.”

John was silent for a long beat of time. When he finally spoke, his words were very careful, very soft. “When Moriarty sent me out,” he said, and Mycroft froze, eyes closing, feeling Sherlock's panic in his own chest like a faint echo, “when Sherlock first saw me, he had this expression on his face. Almost...” John's lips pursed. “Almost hurt. He was looking at me, with this expression of betrayal.”

“You mustn't take that personally,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice steady, calm, almost off-hand, because if John left now, if he did take that personally, and left, Mycroft didn't know what he would do. What he could do. Sherlock would go to pieces, he had no doubt about that, and what a shattered Sherlock would do, he did not ever want to experience.

“What? Oh, no. I mean, that's the logical conclusion to come to, really, when you make arrangements to have a rendezvous with your nemesis, and hey, your flatmate's the only one to show up.” John shook his head. “It's not as if I could say anything to dissuade him at first.” He took a step back, out of the way of an agent that was moving in a piece of equipment. “It's more...” He paused, and there was color in his cheeks. “I didn't really think I had the ability to hurt him that way.”

“Then you haven't been paying attention,” Mycroft told him. 

“He's not exactly demonstrative,” John shot back, but there was a faint smile on his face.

“No. He is not.”

The two men paused, both silent, and John sighed. “How bad was his childhood?”

Mycroft considered that. “Even worse than mine,” he said at last.

John winced. “Yeah, I rather suspected.” He rubbed a hand on his face. “I'm not really good with this stuff, either. You were right. I don't make friends easily.”

“Perhaps not, but when you do, you are unwaveringly, staggeringly loyal,” Mycroft said. “It took me some time to come around to the truth, John, but I have come to the realization that you are not what I would've chosen, but you may be exactly what he needs.”

John glanced at him, a faint smile on his exhausted features. His eyes were clear and sharp, intelligent, warm eyes, even under the sharp shelf of his lowered brows. “I'm not what anyone needs,” he said, a faint sound of derision in his voice. “If I hadn't let myself get grabbed off the street, he would never have been in that position at all.”

“John-”

“Twice. Twice I've been kidnapped by the criminal element, and I'm finding it tiresome,” John said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Worse than useless.”

Mycroft studied the clear blue waters of the pool. “Except for the part where you tried to sacrifice yourself so he could escape.”

John snorted. “That failed, too, so wonderful. I'm inept on several different levels.”

Mycroft grabbed John by the shoulder, turning him around with more force than was strictly necessary. “You threw yourself in front of a bullet for him tonight, even if it was never fired. You've killed for him. Do not make the mistake of downplaying that, because no one has ever protected him before. No one has ever considered that he needs protecting.”

“You have,” John said, his gaze steady, and Mycroft froze, his throat closing up.

He dropped John's arm like it was hot. “The last thing that he wants is my intervention.”

“He's not superhuman. I mean, in some ways he is, but he's just like the rest of us, the rest of the time. He needs you. You could try to be less creepy, less controlling, but for all the amount of time he spends yelling about your interference, he misses you when you're not around. When you don't contact him.”

Mycroft gave him a look packed with disdain. “Oh, do not attempt to cajole me into a better mood, Dr. Watson, I am incapable of being flattered.”

John smiled. “You know what the difference between an enemy and an archenemy is? One's your favorite.” He stepped away from the wall. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” the voice floated down.

“I'm exhausted. Any chance you'll want to go home tonight? Or should I find a place to crash on some gym mats or such?”

“If Sherlock has work to do here, still, I can have a car bring you back to Baker street,” Mycroft said, deliberately being louder than necessary. “Or, better yet, in view of the security breach, perhaps you should come and stay with me for the time being. Until we get-”

He hadn't even finished the sentence when Sherlock stalked past, all but sweeping John along with him, his arm wrapped around John's back in a protective, possessive gesture. Mycroft bit back a choke of laughter. Not subtle, but Sherlock had never had that problem. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock gritted out, “but that is not necessary. We'll head home. Have a nice night. Make sure you take care of the evidence, and I'll want to see any records, and-”

“Quite so,” Mycroft agreed. “Anthea, please see them back to Baker street.”

John glanced back over his shoulder at Mycroft, the expression on his face making it clear that Mycroft wasn't fooling him in the least. Mycroft smiled back. “Good evening, Dr. Watson!”

“Good night, Mr. Holmes!” John called back just as the door slammed shut behind them.

Mycroft watched them go, and with a sigh, turned back to the pool. “Let's get this finished,” he instructed the agent in charge. “I need a drink. Quite badly.”


	2. Season 2 (SPOILERS GALORE!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Covering the second season of Sherlock. Please do not read this until you've seen all three episodes, I'd hate to spoil you.

Irene Adler was dead.

Mycroft cursed, low and long, his teeth biting off each word like they were tearing into flesh, and at this point, that's what it felt like. 

Adler was dead. And she'd left her phone behind with Sherlock of all people. Sherlock, who had the best chance of anyone in the world at deciphering her locks, at getting into the damn thing and prying the information that they needed from it.

Sherlock, who would be incapable of doing that once he knew she was dead.

Sherlock, who already knew she was dead. Who was the one who'd told Mycroft about it. 

He wasn't sure when this mess had slipped his grip, when he'd lost his control of the situation, but he blamed Adler. Adler, who should've been easy to control, who should've been handled long before now. Blasted interference from the Ministry and the goddamn Americans, and now he was standing outside the bloody morgue, wondering just what he could say to Sherlock.

Wondering what he should be saying to himself.

Wondering how long this singular act would haunt him.

*

“Who authorized you to set foot in 221 Baker Street?”

The man on the hospital bed was silent, expression morose under a thick layer drug-based confusion. His foggy eyes met Mycroft's, rimmed in deep bruises, the flesh swollen and angry. His nose was broken, his head bandaged, his lips split. He managed a faint smile, a smirk really, and that reopened the cuts, sending a fresh drop of blood oozing down his chin.

Mycroft didn't really care.

He snapped his fingers briskly in front of the CIA agent's face, the crack sharp and loud in the hospital room. There were machines beeping and whirring away in the background because, really, Sherlock had done quite the number on him, but the guards outside the door kept everyone away. It wouldn't take much for Mycroft to kill the overreaching bastard, and heaven knows he wanted to.

Or throw him out yet another window. Sherlock's solutions, while smacking of the dramatic, were usually quite satisfying.

With a faint and long-suffering sigh, Mycroft leaned in close. He waited until the American was focused on him, as much as he could, and smirked back at him. “I am Mycroft Holmes,” he said, his voice silky. The agent's eyes went wide, just a bit beneath the bruises. “Ah, I see the name means something to you.” He let his free hand lean down on the pillow, almost touching the agent's ear with the inside of his wrist, as close, as threatening as he could get without actual contact. “And that was my younger brother you were holding a weapon on earlier today.”

For a long, fraught moment, he just watched the agent's throat work, desperately trying to swallow, or shout, or struggle, but all three were beyond him. He subsided back into the pillows, eyes shooting sparks at Mycroft. It was enough of an amusement that Mycroft let his lips curl up.

“That being the case, then you will understand when I say that the only reason you're still breathing is because you're completely incompetent and managed to allow a untrained civilian to get the drop on you twice.” As much as he hated the idea of Sherlock with a gun pointed at him, he couldn't quite resist a flicker of proud amusement at the outcome. “That might be a record. Even for one of your kind.” Mycroft let his hand curl up into a fist, leaning heavily against the pillow, an unspoken threat in the way his muscles tightened beneath the fine cloth of his suit.

“I've already spoken to your superiors. You will not be surprised, I'm sure, to find out that they've indicated they had no idea what you were attempting. They had the poor manners to insist that you were not acting on their behalf at all.” Mycroft's teeth flashed. “In short, your mission has been disavowed, sir. They've hung you out to dry. Possibly they came to realize that one time of attempting to shoot my sibling was poor form enough, and almost something that could be forgiven. After all, no one expected him to be at Adler's rooms when you arrived. It was an unforeseen circumstance, and a regrettable one.

“However, breaking into his flat, taking his landlady hostage, and attempting to hold Sherlock at gunpoint was no mistake. Or rather, it very much was a mistake, but not in the way you'd think.” Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “Who authorized you to set foot in 221 Baker Street?”

The CIA agent just stared at him, eyes flat and dark. Mycroft stared back. “You caught him on a very bad day,” he said at last. “You're lucky you're still alive. Though that is a transitory state, life, isn't it? Not as if you have any right to it at this point. How many times did he throw you out the window?”

And that was foolish, Mycroft knew it was foolish, but the idea of Sherlock cheerfully walking down the stairs, prying the trussed up man out of the wreckage of the garbage bins, dragging him back upstairs and shoving him out the window again was so ludicrous that he had to be amused by it. He really didn't have a choice in the matter.

“I'm guessing he was excessive. He always is.” Mycroft straightened up, a faint sigh sliding between his lips. “I, meanwhile, am far more subtle.” He retrieved a pair of gloves from his inner jacket pocket, snapping them in place. “For the last time, who authorized you to set foot in 221 Baker Street?”

There was no reply. He hadn't really been expecting one.

It was little more than half an hour later when he stepped out of the hospital room. Anthea was waiting, her mobile ever at the ready. She held up a sharps box without even looking in his direction, and Mycroft dropped a small bundle, wrapped in a crisp white handkerchief, into the slot. She snapped it shut, and if she noticed the red stains on the linen, she certainly knew better than to mention it.

“Orders, sir?” she asked.

Mycroft was exhausted. “I have some calls to make,” he said, his voice still and quiet. “To the office. For now.” These calls were best made from the official lines. Any follow ups, he might have to make from a more secure, and private, source.

Someone would come to understand the rationality of obeying Mycroft in this. He didn't care if he had to rip through two thirds of the CIA, someone would come to realize that it was a fight they stood no chance of winning. As it was, as infuriating as he considered the whole disastrous situation, he was well aware that it could've gone much, much worse.

Apparently, the original plan had been to hold John hostage.

Lost in that mental nightmare, Mycroft stalked out of the hospital, leaving behind guards and clean up crews and politely duplicitous medical staff. It wasn't until he was safely slumped in the back seat of the car that he allowed himself to wonder if he could've cleaned up that mess. Bad enough that it was Mrs. Hudson being held down with a gun to her head. She was small, and elderly, and altogether harmless. They hadn't even bothered tying her up.

John would've fought them, and best case scenario, he might've been awake and cuffed to the damn chair when Sherlock arrived. Worst case, they might've shot him, or even killed him accidentally. They were rash enough, after all, to think they could control the backlash.

Mycroft shuddered, his entire body tightening with the thought. This must be completed. And swiftly. What he'd taken to be a pleasant little diversion, a quick recovery of sensitive data had spiraled into an international incident and a complete collapse on Sherlock's part.

Goddamn woman.

*

“This was all your fault.”

Mycroft had seen John in several moods. Amused, frustrated, content, stubborn, all of those, he'd encountered a time or two. For the most part, when he dealt with John, it was with a polite sort of detachment on both their sides. They let Sherlock deal with the dramatics and the overreactions, the childish fits and the yelling. John had never struck Mycroft as being a particularly passionate person. He'd decided, in the last year or so, that it was for the best; two people prone to being highstrung in the same flat was just asking for trouble.

Right now, he realized that John Watson might be controlled, but he did not lack passion. Right now, as he stared Mycroft down in his own study, John was wildly, passionately furious.

Mycroft set his case down. “Good evening, John. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

John was slouched low in the arm chair, his posture relaxed, but his jaw was a granite hard line. “This was all your fault,” he repeated, and his voice was soft, an icy whisper.

“It's best if we leave the melodrama to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, taking a seat behind his desk. “What brought this on?”

“Finding out some very interesting information from your brother,” John said, his hands twitching on the arms of the chair. The knuckles were pale, sharp points of bone rising from the plush arms. “He is laboring under the impression that the mess with Irene was his failing.” John's thin lips twitched up, macabre and sharp. “When in fact both you and I know that's the opposite of the truth.”

Mycroft opened a file folder, considering the pages inside. “Do we?”

“I do, and you have a reputation for being clever. I'm not quite certain I believe that any longer,” John said, one hand coming up to cradle his chin. “You set him up.”

Mycroft's fingers tightened on his pen, and he set it down before he could do accidental damage to the delicate metal. “Don't be foolish,” he snapped, head coming up, rare heat slipping into the words.

“I'm not the foolish one.” John's eyes were laser sharp under his lowered brows. “The two of you spend so much time circling each other, playing these little games of yours, but you fouled up rather impressively this time.”

Mycroft rubbed his aching forehead with a thumb and index finger, trying to ease the pain there. “John, as much as I enjoy these chats, we both know that Sherlock likes to twist events to make himself the martyr, especially when it comes to family matters. Whatever he said-”

John's tight smile parted just enough to let the words slip out. “'One lonely, naive man desperate to show off,'” he said, and it was an arctic, brutal cut of a sentence coming from him. “He was drunk, Mycroft, drunk enough to say all sorts of things to me that he would usually keep to himself. Bury. Repress. All those fun things you Holmes boys do with troublesome emotions.”

Inwardly, Mycroft cursed, long and low and vicious. Not a hint of it showed on his face, but his mind was awash in the rawest curses he was capable of, most of them directed at himself. He met John's eyes without a flicker of reaction, his gaze calm and flat. “You weren't there, John.”

“It's a very good thing for you that I wasn't. I would've torn you limb from limb.” There was a soft, almost gentle note to his voice, a calm acceptance. This wasn't melodrama. This wasn't a threat. It was a man pushed beyond the limits of his mental endurance lashing out with everything he had.

Mycroft felt the first stirrings of something that might, in a lesser man, be classified as fear. 

“John-”

“No,” John said, cutting him off. “No. You're done. We're done, you and me, our little discussions about Sherlock, our unspoken agreement of working together. Because you shoved him under the bus, Mycroft, and then you had the bloody gall to blame him for making a mess of the wheels.”

“How dare you,” Mycroft said, ice crystallizing on the words.

John's eyebrows arched up. “How dare I? Really? I think I have the right to tell you to go to hell at this point.” He leaned forward, shoulders a hard line as he stared Mycroft down. “What were you thinking? Sending him in to deal with her? What the bloody hell were you thinking, Mycroft?”

“That he could get the information we needed,” Mycroft snapped. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

“It is my concern!” John yelled. “It's my concern because I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout! Because you stride in, make a great mess of his life, of his mental state, and then leave me to pick up the pieces! You never stick around to see the damage you do, you just lob the bloody goddamn grenade and let him throw himself on it!”

Mycroft's teeth were gritted so hard that his jaw ached, ached all the way up his skull, the pain a constant companion by this point. 

“He had no defenses against her. You couldn't have done a better job of sending him into an unmatched fight if you'd tried. I'm starting to think that you were trying. She's-” He cut himself off. “She was a master when it came to con games and trickery and sexual manipulation. Sherlock has no way to defend himself against any of that, and you chose him to go up against her!” John's eyes were furious beneath his lowered brows. “And then, when he failed, when he was just as caught up in her con as everyone else around her, you lashed out at him, in front of her!

“Jesus, Mycroft. Bloody...” John's face twisted. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. I don't understand the cruelty. That's what bothers me. I don't understand the cruelty, and I don't understand the logic. For all intents and purposes, he's a teenager. From what I've been lead to believe, his longest relationship has been with me!”

“Don't be idiotic,” Mycroft snapped.

“Am I wrong?” John threw his hands out. “Please. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that there's been someone who loved him, someone who understood him, someone other than you or your parents. Anyone. Friend, lover, pet, anything.”

Mycroft's lips twitched. “It's so pleasant of you to assume our parents loved him.”

John's eyes slid shut. “Great. Wonderful. So you took a man with no emotional framework and sent him up against Irene Bloody Adler, the woman who's twisted half the commonwealth into knots and left the other half gaping in her wake.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “There was no way Sherlock could cope. And you had to know that.”

“It was the emotional detachment that I thought would carry him through,” Mycroft snapped, and cursed himself inwardly. He did not have to explain himself to John Watson. Interloper. Stray. He had no place here, no cause for his wild accusations, it was unprecedented. 

“He's still human, and she was a master,” John snapped. “And every single thing you've done has set him up. You threw him in her path, you thrust him directly into her grip. Then, when he was up to his neck in it, you jerked him back, and you knew, you had to know, that it would only make him more desperate to prove you wrong, to solve your problems behind your back. And then you compounded the problem by taking a call in the flat, you let him hear, you knew he would hear, and it makes no sense.

“You set him in play, you forced him forward, and you leaked the information that allowed him to figure the whole thing out,” John said, rage churning at the edges of the words. “And then you humiliated him in front of her for doing just exactly what you'd caused him to do.” He paused. “What was it you said to him? All it takes is one lonely, naive man,desperate to show off?”

“John-”

“How desperate were you, to get your brother's attention?” John asked. There was an instant of stillness as they both froze. “To show him how important you are? How many fingers you have in how many pies? Did you feel you were losing his focus? That he had finally gotten his own life, his own place in the world, and it had nothing to do with you? Is that why you shoved your business in his face, and then ripped his throat out when he did exactly what you had intended for him to do? When he focused all of his remarkable attention, all on you, all on your problems and your every word, did you get what you wanted?

“Did you intend to ruin him all along?”

Mycroft slammed a fist down on his desk. “Enough,” he said, and it was a roar, a sound that ripped from his throat, a sound that he didn't even know he could make, he didn't know that he could yell at that timbre, with that force, everything in his background, in his upbringing, had denied him that. But this was primal, this was brutal, this was a word made not so much of sound but of emotion.

He sucked in a breath. And another, and another, until he felt that he could speak without screaming. Until he felt that he could form words with his usual skill, to wield his tongue as a scalpel and not a blunt installment. “I think you have said quite enough, Dr. Watson. I would ask you to take your leave now. We will discuss your relationship with my brother at a time when we are both more calm.”

They stared at each other, and a faint smile flickered across John's face. “Oh, I think we should do it while we're both quite sharp-edged. More honest that way, don't you think?”

“Dr. Watson-”

“So how does this work, usually?” John asked, his voice pleasant, almost amused. “And let's not pretend you haven't done it before. You're a bloody controlling bastard, Mycroft, and that is God's honest truth. I always thought that came from a real affection for your brother, but now...”

He stood. “I'm no longer sure. So, how does this work? Do you start with threats? Or perhaps bribery?” He nodded. “Yes, bribery. You tried that with me once, didn't you? Actually, you tried both. I assume that bribery comes first, easier to transition from there to threats, but perhaps it's threats first. And when the victim is sufficiently cowed, then you offer a gentler out with a bribe.”

Mycroft's fingers were white knuckled on the arms of his chair. “Dr. Watson, you overstep yourself.”

“I really don't,” John said, soft and gentle. “Because you've made a rather large mistake. Really, you've made a series of them. Now, I'm the one who has to clean it up. I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout from the fact that you were so pathetically desperate to look important in front of your younger brother that you shot yourself, and him, and me, in the goddamn foot!

“So let's cut to the chase. I've lived a boring life, Mycroft. Pathetic, really, but there's nothing you can find on me to use as leverage, to use as a threat. I have no debts, no dark secrets, no great scandals, which I'm sure you've already figured out.”

Mycroft kept his face still with a force of will, with all the effort available to him. His teeth gritted behind tightly pursed lips, he stared John down, and John stared back, a faint smile still there on his lips. 

“Not much family, few friends, and you could get me fired, I'm sure, or get my pension cut somehow, I wouldn't put that past you, but I've got the skills to keep myself fed and clothed. A doctor's always got patients, Mycroft, and I'm sure you could ruin me with a few well placed lies, but you won't. Because Sherlock would see through that very quickly, and that would defeat the purpose of this whole thing, wouldn't it?”

John tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, relaxed, calm. “So threats are out, and bribery's out, and you could disappear me, I'm certain of that, but you'd have to be very, very careful about how you went about that. Sherlock's not easily fooled, and an accidental death would require a great deal of planning.”

“You honestly think I'd have you killed?” Mycroft said, low and sharp.

“I think you'd do just about anything to protect Sherlock, and I think it would not take much to convince yourself that removing me would be best for him. You follow a very twisted logic, Mycroft, a dark little headspace that I'm not privy to, but I'd advise that you not force Sherlock to chose sides right now.”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft stood, hands braced on the desk, shoulders hunched, fury barely under control.

“The ultimatum you're planning on throwing at him. The 'him or me' nonsense that you have as a last resort.” John rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. “Don't do it.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

John's hand dropped to his side, fingers flexing. “Because you'll lose,” he whispered, and there was pity in his voice, in his eyes when he looked at Mycroft, there in his face, and Mycroft had never wanted to hurt anyone so much in his life as he did at that instant. Judging by the faint, sad smile on his face, John knew it.

“You overestimate your importance, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, and his voice was even and calm and collected. Precise. Controlled. Caring was not an advantage, he knew it was the truth. If he repeated it often enough, he might be able to convince himself.

“No. I don't, I just know that if you force him to chose right now, he will chose me. You'll lose him, if you do it, and I hate you right now, I hate you in a way that I didn't know it was possible to hate someone, but he is your brother. As messed up as your relationship is, you do love him, and he loves you even more, and I respect that. I can't stop you from hurting him, that's out of my control, but I can try to stop you from ruining whatever you've still got left of a relationship with him.”

John leaned forward to brace his hands on the other side of Mycroft's desk, his posture mirroring Mycroft's. Jaw tight, he said, “Don't force him to chose, Mycroft. He'll chose me.”

“Why do you think that?”

John's lips quirked up, just a little. “Because I would never ask him to chose. And you will. You'll force him into a corner and force his hand and just out of pure stubborn spite, he'll cut you off and walk away.” John straightened up, one hand sliding through his already disordered hair. “It'd be a mistake, and you've made enough of those lately.”

Mycroft's vision was actually white at the edges, his head throbbing with the force of it, but he kept his voice calm. “You insolent pup. When did you grow teeth?” he asked, the question offhand.

“Oh, I always had teeth,” John said, flashing a wide, white smile. “It's not my fault if you didn't take me seriously enough to notice them. However, it's not my teeth you need to worry about. It's the grip of my jaw, because I'm a stubborn bastard, Mycroft, and if I decide to bite, I'm not going to be letting go.”

He turned on his heel, stalking towards the door. “Do yourself a favor. Don't make it necessary. You and I have gotten along well enough, and I don't want you for an enemy.”

“John?”

John paused, glancing over his shoulder at Mycroft. His face was expressionless. “I don't want you for an enemy, either,” Mycroft said, and he meant it. “But if it comes down to it, I will destroy you.”

There was an instant of silence, and then John grinned at him, wide and sharp and predatory, and it was an expression that Mycroft was used to seeing on Sherlock's face, not John's, but it looked natural there. “You can try,” John said. “Good night, Mycroft.” He was out the door a moment later, pulling it shut behind him with a gentle click.

Mycroft stayed standing for another second or two, working on bringing his heartbeat back under control. At forcing his breathing back to the normal parameters. His knees went limp all of a sudden, and he collapsed back into his chair, eyes sliding shut as he slumped low, boneless.

And tried to ignore the overwhelming sense of self-hatred that was thick in his throat.

*

“That was rash.”

“Most things I chose to do fall under the classification of rash, so you'll have to narrow the discussion down somewhat,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased with me.

“Seeing to it that I visited Baskervilles today.” Mycroft tapped a file folder with one manicured fingernail. “You have no idea the paperwork that resulted in that little jaunt, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft, just being you generates paperwork. If you've discovered a sudden dislike for it, perhaps you ought to consider a lifestyle change.”

“Perhaps I should consider letting them arrest you next time,” Mycroft said, arching his eyebrows.

“That would be foolish. You'd just have to come bail me out.” Sherlock sounded a bit manic, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “And we both know how you dislike actually setting foot outside of the city.”

“It is tedious,” Mycroft agreed. 

“Lazy,” Sherlock said.

“You have no idea how my work piles up while I'm traveling. It's simply not worth the trouble or the effort.” Mycroft opened the file folder and flipped through the classified files. It was unusual when he got paperwork with blacked out passages. With a faint snort, he stood and walked to the door. “Correct this,” he said to Anthea, who glanced at the ages and gave an exaggerated eyeroll.

“Yes, sir,” she said, taking the file from him.

Mycroft returned to his desk and collapsed into his chair. “Really, Sherlock? Chasing fictional monsters over the moors? What's next, haunted houses?”

“Should the case prove interesting enough, yes.” Sherlock was almost dancing on the other end of the line and despite his best efforts, Mycroft felt his lips twitch.

“I shall remind you about the fascinating case of the disappearing bunny next time you attempt to decline to assist me,” Mycroft said, staring at his laptop. Sherlock's website was perpetually a source of amusement. Especially the parts that he was not supposed to have access to.

“You're drawing a false conclusion, Mycroft. I decline your cases because you are an annoyance who attempts to control my life, not because the cases are lacking,” Sherlock explained. “In fact, if anyone other than you were to offer them, I should be more than pleased to assist.”

“It's always good to know that family holds that special place with you, Sherlock.” Mycroft hit a few keys. “Your newest article on paper fragmentation in solvents is just pathetic.”

“Just because you don't understand the big words doesn't make it pathetic.” Sherlock sounded amused. “Your latest efforts to keep James Moriarty off the streets are just as laughable.”

Mycroft froze, his fingers seizing over the keyboard. 

As the silence stretched out, Sherlock sighed. “Do you think I wouldn't be aware? For heaven's sake, Mycroft, even for you, that's rather controlling, don't you think?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Mycroft said, trying to sound amused. “What rumors are you paying heed to now, Sherlock?”

“You've never been able to keep me out of your systems, Mycroft. We're too similar, you and I. Our brains work just a tad bit too close to each other for comfort. I know what you're doing.” There was a pause, and he heard Sherlock let out a brief sigh. “It won't work, Mycroft.”

“It will.”

“You can't hold him forever. We both know you have nothing on him.”

“And when has that ever stopped any government in the history of human civilization?”

Sherlock gave a faint snort of amusement. “You can use him, Mycroft.”

“Trust me, we're doing our best. As it turns out, he's only slightly less stubborn than you. Nothing has had the least effect.”

“You're not offering him what he wants.”

“And what would that be, Sherlock?”

Another pause, stretching out, and Sherlock took a deep breath. “Me.”

*

The call woke him in the early hours of the morning, and Mycroft was halfway out of bed before he managed to fumble the connection through. “Sherlock?”

The breathing on the other end of the line was thick and strained, and Mycroft was moving towards the bedroom door. “Sherlock, what's wrong? Talk to me. Talk to me, right now, or I'm scrambling a recovery team.”

“I'm fine. It's... Fine.”

Mycroft paused, hand coming up to brace himself against the doorframe. His head fell forward, a shudder of relief rolling through him. “What's happened, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. Case... Isn't going the way it should.”

Mycroft didn't trust himself to go back to bed. Too exhausted right now. Instead, he slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs on silent bare feet that were already picking up the chill of the polished wood. “What did you do, Sherlock, that John isn't speaking to you?”

Sherlock made a strangled sound of frustration. “Don't be idiotic.”

“Quite the opposite. If the case wasn't going well, and you were on good terms with him, you'd be talking to him. You are not, you are calling me, Sherlock, and quite past the time for such things. So that means you've had a row with John, and it was your fault.”

“How do you know it was my fault? It could well have been his fault.” Sherlock sounded so petulant that despite the situation, Mycroft found himself smiling. 

“Because if it was John's fault, you'd never let me know there had been a fight. You would never admit to me that he'd done anything wrong,” Mycroft's voice was soft in the predawn hours as he set the kettle. “You are protective to a fault, dear brother.”

Sherlock said nothing to that, and Mycroft fetched himself a teacup. “What did you do, Sherlock?”

Another long pause. “Told him I didn't have any friends.”

Mycroft assembled the sugar bowl and the cream from the fridge, his heart sinking in his chest. “Well, that was foolish.”

“Thank you for that sterling judgment.”

“I do hope you didn't call me for sympathy, Sherlock, as that's unlikely to happen.” He considered the tea canisters. “After all, that's the sort of thing that a friend does.”

He could hear Sherlock breathing, but kept his silence until the other man burst out, “What do I do?”

Mycroft paused, considered how easy it would be to take Sherlock back. To let this minor break become a true rift. To twist Sherlock up, convince him that it was for the best, that he could return to his solitary existence now. To convince Sherlock that he didn't have to try, didn't have to struggle or grow, or become anything more. He could do it so easily. Sherlock would take the easy path, and it would hurt John, that wound growing deep and wide.

It would be so easy.

Except he knew full well that John would never leave Sherlock over something so petty. After all, if John was anyone other than John, he wouldn't have made it this long as Sherlock's flatmate and, well, friend.

“You could start by telling him the truth,” Mycroft said to Sherlock, considering the possibilities of his tea collection.

Sherlock snorted. “I don't know what that is.”

“Don't be foolish, Sherlock. Of course you do. You may not wish to acknowledge it, but you know full well what it is.” He paused. “All you are doing now, all our plans with Moriarty, it is in fact to protect John.” There was no response other than the aching silence. “You do all this to keep him alive, and now you're unwilling to speak a handful of simple words?”

“They aren't so simple.”

“They become much more simple when you allow yourself to speak them. And when you allow yourself to believe them.”

Sherlock gave a snort of disdain. There was something off about him tonight. Mycroft wasn't sure what, but he'd heard that unstable, grasping note in Sherlock's voice before. If he hadn't been certain that Sherlock wouldn't indulge during a case, he'd say Sherlock had taken something. Frowning, he filed that away to consider at a later time.

“Are you attempting to counsel me about feelings?” Sherlock was saying, and the final word was packed with disdain. “It wasn't so long ago when you were convincing me that caring was not an advantage.”

“For the Woman? It was not.” Mycroft paused. For Mycroft, caring was not an advantage. But Sherlock wasn't Mycroft, was he? “For John Watson? Now, that's quite different, isn't it? Because whether or not you are willing to say the words, it will not change your heart. However, not saying the words could well change his.”

Mycroft stared at the curl of steam that was settling around the mouth of his kettle. “Are you willing to lose him because you cannot bear to risk the words?”

“I won't lose him.”

“He can stay, and you can still lose him. I rather think that would be worse, don't you? If he took you at your word, and stopped bothering you with all these petty, troublesome emotions. After all, if you have no need of his friendship, then he should cease to concern you with it.” He made no move to pour the water. The act seemed like too much of an effort. “Do you understand, Sherlock, that many flatmates just live in the same space? They can go days without speaking. They certainly are under no obligation to eat together, or sit together, or, I don't know, solve minor crimes together-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock was breathing hard, panic chewing at the edges of the sound, and Mycroft feel obligingly silent. Letting Sherlock absorb that. Letting him come to terms with the reality of the knife's edge he found himself on.

As the silence stretched out, Mycroft watched the steam stop rolling up into the cool night air. “Could you bear that?” Mycroft said at last. “To have him there, but to no longer have him be your friend?”

There was a soft sound, and it might've been a moan, it might have been a 'no,' it might've been an animalistic sound of pain, and Mycroft was sure, sure now, that Sherlock was not fully in his right mind.

“Then you must try your best, Sherlock,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “It won't take much. He understands you. Understands your... Limitations,” he said, after struggling for the word. “But you must make the effort. Do it, because you will regret it if you do not. If you cannot tell him-”

He heard the line go dead, and paused only an instant, before he finished, “How very much you love him.”

Mycroft wasn't sure if he was talking about Sherlock's feelings for John, or his own feelings for Sherlock.

He considered his mobile. Taking a deep breath, he dialed. “Hello, Lestrade,” he said, his voice cool. “I am going to need you to check up on something for me.”

*

“We can control this.”

Mycroft's fingers bit into his mobile. “No. No, we cannot, Sherlock. This has spiraled out of our control.” He hated pacing, hated the evidence of his lost control. He'd long since trained himself to sniper levels of stillness, to hold himself steady in any storm, but now, now...

He was lost to the winds.

“Fine.” Sherlock sounded almost amused, as if he'd given up on Mycroft already. “I can control this.”

“You escaped custody, Sherlock, you didn't-” He pivoted on one heel, breath hissing in his throat. “You couldn't just stay put, allow me to handle it, to let the system take due course, I could've had you free in hours, at most, they had nothing to hold you on!”

His voice was reaching dangerous levels, high and sharp, a note that he didn't recognize creeping in, and it was fear and anger and helplessness. None of which bothered him, he knew those emotions, he could control them, he could use them.

It was the desperation that made his stomach bottom out.

“I need you to come in, Sherlock, to come in and let us handle it from this point on, we have the files, we have the background to prove just who and what Moriarty is. This mess he's made is superficial, it's a great deal of sound and fury, and there is nothing beneath it, you know this, Sherlock. You must come in.” He swallowed, forced his body to stillness, forced himself to take a chance.

“Sherlock. Let me handle this.” He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and begged. “Please.”

The silence was overwhelming. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out everything, louder and louder, and he knew the answer before Sherlock verbalized it. “No.”

Mycroft turned on his heel, aiming a brutal fist at the wall. He stopped a bare inch away from the surface, his arm jerking with tension. “Sherlock,” he said, and not a bit of it showed in his voice, it was as cool and controlled as ever. “I need you to come home now.”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” he started.

“I won't leave John.”

The world whited out, his vision going blank, empty, and Mycroft gritted out, “Devil take John, Sherlock, he's not interested in John, what good will you be to him if you die now?”

“He'll be interested in John if that's all he can get of me,” Sherlock said, and there was a note of aching resignation in his voice. “All of this, all of it, from beginning to end, has been to keep him from ever going after John again. I will not permit it.”

“Sherlock, listen to me-”

“Good bye, Mycroft.” The line went dead.

He was storming out of his office, he knew he was, issuing orders and snapping out demands, his voice roaring through the office, underlings scrambling in all directions, he knew it was happening, he could see it, could hear it, but it was as if he was observing the whole thing from a great distance.

He was aware of his movements. Aware of the futility of it all. Without Sherlock's assistance, he was going to fail. Without Sherlock working with him, he couldn't do this, he couldn't force the pieces into place, he couldn't do it, his reach wasn't long enough, wasn't deep enough.

He wasn't strong enough, smart enough, good enough to save Sherlock unless Sherlock was willing to be saved, unless Sherlock wanted to save himself.

He was going to lose.

He was going to lose everything.

*

Mycroft Holmes did not see the fall. But he'd been waiting for it, somewhere in some dark and desperate part of himself, since his brother had been old enough to know what death was.

Known that there was a choice, that living was not the only answer.

So it was perhaps a little more accurate to say: Mycroft Holmes did not see the end of the fall, but he was the only one who'd been there for the beginning, for that first, desperate step off the ledge, foot hovering in midair, body held by a force of will to a safe spot, to a point of balance so fleeting as to be non-existent. Sherlock Holmes had been on the knife edge of death for so long that the fact that he finally slipped free, giving way to gravity and boredom and the unending weight of his own life, should've come as no surprise. 

Mycroft had been waiting for Sherlock to hit the pavement for decades, and still, when it happened, he found himself drastically unprepared.

Because until that moment, he'd truly believed he could control his brother's life. Only to find that he couldn't even control his own.

*

When your world has ended, when you are lost and alone and rudderless and half-mad with grief, a grief that wants to swallow you and choke you and dissolve the flesh from beneath your skin, you don't really think about checking your email.

For the first time, perhaps in his entire adult life, Mycroft did not answer his phone when it rang. It buzzed constantly, sedate and polite and precise. He didn't answer it; the only person he wanted to speak to is no longer capable of calling him. Sherlock's phone had been handed over, the police had collected it at the scene, and it lay on his desk, still in the sealed evidence bag.

He touched it, through the slick plastic bag, over and over and over, like a talisman, like he could feel Sherlock through the last thing he'd touched. Like some echo of his brother might remain there. The minutes, the hours since his death were agonizing.

Mycroft's phone buzzed again, and, listless and annoyed, he reached out to pick it up. He flicked through the incoming messages, one after another. Mostly sympathy messages, work information; he flicked through the emails, barely glancing at the content, just the titles.

He was about to shut the mobile down again when his sodden brain sparked to life. Eyes narrowing, he went back, looking for the strange email title, something that had seemed off. 

There it was. “My puppy.”

The email address was that of a colleague, a man of a certain age who almost always did his work by phone, or through a secretary, he wasn't one to send much by way of emails, or share forwarded chain letters about dogs. Mycroft stared at the email address. 

Wondering if he was losing his mind, or just grasping at straws, he opened it.

The message text was simple. “I am sorry to bother you, in this, your time of grief. I am sorry for your suffering, Mycroft, I am, but I am desperate, and require your assistance. I have had to leave town unexpectedly, and do not know when I will be able to return. Could you please look after my puppy? I am afraid for what will happen to him if you do not.”

The email was unsigned.

Mycroft stared at it, his heart pounding so hard that he could feel it in his bones, he could hear it in his ears. His fingers hovered over the keys, and he was terrified, terrified of answering and being wrong, of breaking this Schrodinger's box of simultaneous life and death.

His reply took far too long to compose.

“Thank you for your condolences; I have lost the best part of my life, the bright, warm heart of it. I would give anything to undo what has been done, but that is not within my power. As to your puppy, I will of course take care of him. He is dear to me as well, is he not? I do hope that we can speak again soon, so please complete your business as swiftly as possible. You would not be happy if your puppy came to be fully comfortable with me.”

Closing his eyes, he hit send. 

Pushing himself up on wobbly legs, he set the mobile on his desk and recapped the bottle of scotch. He'd been refilling his glass with such speed that putting the stopper back in had seemed pointless. Now, he studied the two fingers of amber liquid in his glass, ice cubes melting in their midst, and considered finishing it.

His mobile buzzed, and his weak knees went out from under him, dropping him back into his seat.

“What a wicked suggestion, that you would try to supplant me as his favorite! It won't happen, you know, he is loyal to a fault. As to my business, that may take some time. I hate these open ended problems, don't you? Until it is solved, everything is up in the air. The lack of concrete planning always makes for a tricky assignment. Perhaps, though, I can speak to you in a few days, I may require your assistance on a matter of some importance, some time before you set about to bury your brother.”

Mycroft watched the condensation roll down the sides of the tumbler of scotch, the closest thing to tears that he was capable of shedding. He reached out with one trembling finger and felt the cold wetness on his skin.

“I should be so pleased to hear from you, whenever you can arrange it. I will always be available to speak to you, no matter what else is happening. Have no fear for your puppy, I will do everything in my power to keep him safe and happy, or as happy as he can be with his favorite person gone from his life. Please be quick, remember that puppies don't always understand that such separations are temporary.”

The liquor burned its way down his throat, and he gasped, almost coughing at the force of it. Already dizzy and caught somewhere between fear and relief, he stared at his mobile. His fingers, still wet from the glass, reached out to rub against Sherlock's phone through the plastic bag. Over and over. Stroking, tracing, learning every inch of the damn thing.

Another buzz, and Mycroft almost fumbled his phone in his desperation to get it open.

“Puppies are smarter than you'd imagine. At least, mine is, and that's all that matters. Do you remember, Mycroft, asking me about my first pet, some time ago? I told you at the time that I didn't remember much about that stray I'd brought home, but that was a lie. A lie I told for no good reason, other than the fact that I didn't want to speak of it. I do remember, no matter how small I was. Don't you think it odd, what children remember?”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He bent over his phone, huddled over it like it was a source of warmth in the midst of winter, curled himself around it.

“Children remember things that alter them, for better or worse. But being so young, what could you possibly recall?”

The reply was almost immediate.

“That I loved him. That losing him broke my heart. And that my brother did what he could to soften the blow. I don't think I ever thanked him for that.”

Mycroft was shocked by the painful burn of his eyes. He blinked, hard and fast as he composed his reply, each keystroke seeming to take far too long.

“I'm sure he knew. I seldom spoke of such things with Sherlock. I regret that now. I don't know if he died not ever knowing how much I loved him.”

The delay was longer this time, but he refused to regret his words. Refused to regret being honest, for once in his life, refused to regret ignoring the family rules and every stupid thing between them.

“I'm sure he knew, too. Brothers always do, you know. I must go now. Please take care. It may be some time before I can speak to you again, but do not be concerned. I was trained by the best, after all, and will be careful. Thank you, Mycroft. Please stay safe, and keep my puppy safe and protected, because I will need him back, as soon as it can be managed.”

Mycroft set his mobile down, burying his face in his hands, and if there was moisture there, against his palms, then he could tell himself it was just the damp of his skin, or the condensation from his glass, and not something foreign or embarrassing. 

Something like tears.

It took him far too long to pull himself together, and when he did, he stumbled to his feet, his fingers shaking as he gripped the edge of his desk. He took a deep breath, and then another, and moved across the dark office, away from the single pool of light that his desk lamp provided. 

He picked up the mostly empty bottle from the floor, ignoring the damp patch on the carpet near where it had fallen. Picking up the blanket while he was down there, he tucked the bottle under one arm so he could shake out the blanket and place it back over John Watson's sleeping form. John's eyes opened, and Mycroft gave him a lopsided smile.

“Is he safe?” John asked, his voice slurred at the edges with the effects of an entire bottle of whiskey, and for an instant, Mycroft didn't know if he knew what was happening, or if he was just so drunk that he'd started making things up. Either way, the answer was easy.

"You're safe. That's the important thing.”

John stared at him, eyes foggy and his expression relaxed. “He's alive,” he said, on a drunken slur. 

“John-”

John's eyes closed again, a faint smile floating over his features. “You're... Crying. Grief wouldn't make you cry, his death wouldn't make you cry.” He yawned, words stumbling over themselves. “But relief's a bitch, isn't it? You can brace yourself for grief. Prepare. Nothing you can do to soften the blow of relief. Relief... Will take the heart out of you.”

Mycroft ignored the damp skin of his cheeks. “You are drunk. And talking nonsense.”

John mumbled something that Mycroft couldn't make out, and he leaned over, just in time to hear,“Love... Him...”

His cheeks were wet in the low light, because he was right. Relief was a bitch.

Mycroft waited for John to go still again, and considered the small amount of liquid at the bottom of the bottle, and, with a shrug, took a slug without bothering with a glass. It burned all the way down, and he blinked against the sting of tears. Lowering himself into the nearby armchair, he toasted Sherlock with a grin and swing of the bottle. “To my brother,” he whispered into the darkness. “And the puppy he once brought home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, my Mycroft feels go back to being hidden. Promise. 8)
> 
> Thank you for your patience and your kindness, as I struggle to start working on Sherlock fic again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sherlock eBook Covers [x4]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049537) by [soilied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soilied/pseuds/soilied)




End file.
